


Gaudete

by blueteak



Category: Life on Mars
Genre: Christmas snark, M/M, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/pseuds/blueteak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's chosen to extend his undercover assignment into Christmas Eve. Gene pulls Sam out just after he attends Midnight Mass with the mafia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gaudete

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://basaltgrrl.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**basaltgrrl**](http://basaltgrrl.dreamwidth.org/)'s Personal Yuletide. She requested "some Sam/Gene Christmas morning fun." Happy holidays and many thanks for the suggestion!
> 
> The idea of Sam being undercover on Christmas was inspired by ~~a beautifully angsty fic which I now can't find. Please let me know if you wrote it or know who did!~~ [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=dakfinv)[**dakfinv**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=dakfinv) 's amazing "I'll Be Home For." I wouldn't have put "Sam," "undercover," and "Christmas" together without it and I want to properly credit. And read it again.

_Dóminus dixit ad me: Fílius meus es tu, ego hódie génui te…_

Gene wondered idly whether he could hit the man for speaking Latin. Given that the man was a priest, he thought not. He could, however, hit Sam for making him listen to the man speaking in Latin.

Sam was meant to be a. at CID’s Christmas Eve party making certain that Chris was near a bin at all times and then b., getting buggered by the light of their Christmas tree.

Sam was not meant to be a. still undercover as a minor mafioso and b. making Gene suffer through a bleedin’ Midnight Mass. He preferred whiskey to the blood of Christ, thank you very much.

 _…Et ídeo cum Angelis et Archángelis, cum Thronis et Dominatiónibus, cumque omni milítia cæléstis exércitus, hymnum glóriæ tuæ cánimus….._

Then again, the sight of Sam singing illuminated by candlelight and surrounded by stained glass and stone pillars was almost— _almost_ —enough to make up for the fact that Sam was also surrounded by men who would set fire to your grannie as soon as look at you.

Gene was certain for a moment that Sam’s cover would be blown. How could the men currently kneeling next to Sam not see that he wasn’t a murdering bastard? Sam appeared to be bloody glowing, even without help from the candles. He may as well have been wearing a sign reading “I am the way and the truth and you’re nicked.”

And Gene had just compared Sam to Jesus. Sam would definitely be getting a good Christmas morning kicking.

 _Communicántes, et noctem sacratíssimam celebrántes, qua beátæ Maríæ intemeráta virgínitas huic mundo édidit Salvatórem…_

The service continued on, mysterious and musical. The Latin, which had initially set Gene’s teeth on edge, started to lull him into a state of relaxation. His mind drifted; disconnected memories and fantasies of Sam, the holidays, and, occasionally, the case, went past in a hazy stream.

Gene was jolted back into awareness of why he was actually there when everyone stood for communion. If Sam had spotted him, he would know that Gene was about to drag his insubordinate arse in and might try to leave while the rest of the congregation moved about.

Gene was surprised when Sam joined the queue for communion instead of bolting or abstaining, but was happy to take the opportunity to plant a few tabs of acid in Sam’s jacket pocket as he walked past.

Gene found himself wondering about Sam and religion. The question hadn’t come up before, on a case or otherwise; their Sundays off were spent primarily in bed, with breaks for fry-ups and footie.

Something about the ease with which Sam angled his head to receive the communion wafer made Gene think it was a habitual action, that Sam had at one point been used to attending these services. How long had it been? Did Sam still believe? If so, how much?

Sam looked truly unguarded; Gene, who believed he had seen him that way more than most, had learned to read him enough to know when there was an openness in him, a break in the tension that was so much a part of him that few even realized Sam could exist without it.

Watching Sam take communion felt intimate in a new way. He felt connected to Sam through something formal, ancient and larger than both of them, even though he didn’t believe as Sam at least appeared to. The music, candles, and even the Latin created an atmosphere that seemed to link the congregation, even if they didn’t believe at all, or didn’t believe in precisely the same way.

Sam caught Gene’s eye while crossing himself on the way back to his pew and beamed, obviously not terribly concerned about the bollocking that was soon to be coming his way. It took Gene longer than it should have to realize that he was beaming back.

Gene ducked his head. Fantastic. He and Sam might as well have arrived at the service in uniform for all the discretion they’d just shown.

They were safe here, though, even if they’d been observed by people who knew who he was. The men Sam was with wouldn’t open fire in a church even if they suspected him. Afterwards, though….

The image of Sam crossing himself came back and Gene shuddered to think of the same gesture being performed over Sam’s casket. He was bringing Sam in no more than five minutes after the end of the service. He’d been prepared to do it when he arrived and felt even more resolve now.

 _…Navitátem Dómini nostri Jesu Christi mystériis nos frequentáre gaudémus; dignis conversatiónibus ad ejus mereámur perveníre consórtium. Qui tecum vivit et regnat in unitáte Spíritus Sancti, Deus, per ómnia sæcula sæculórum. Amen._

The congregation recessed, cheery, weary, and looking forward to going to sleep with the holiday service fresh in their minds.

This time Gene wasn’t influenced by the general atmosphere.

Gene kept an eye on Sam and was prepared when he practically sprinted for the door.

All the same, Gene managed to maintain visual contact only by shoving his way past groups of slow-moving families and friends who were blocking the exit in their eagerness to chat and keep out of the cold.

He finally caught Sam’s sleeve about five steps from the church door. This was not going to be one of those times where Sam acted like he was the DCI and Gene let him.

Sam hadn’t accepted that yet. Gene got as far as “Donnie Brasco, I’m arresting you on suspicion of possession--” before Sam threw a punch at him.

Gene blocked it easily, twisting Sam’s arm up behind his back and fitting a cuff on his wrist. He took special delight in reciting the correct version of the caution to Sam, whose cuffs made it impossible for him to effectively lash out at Gene no matter how hard he struggled against him.

Gene was a warm, solid presence behind him and Sam knew Gene wouldn’t let him out of sight, or out of grabbing range, if they ever got to sleep.

“I told you I’d bring you in if you didn’t come in when you were told,” Gene whispered in Sam’s ear, his warm breath on this cold night making Sam shiver against him. “Now be a good lad and come quietly.”

Sam took that as a challenge. “A fit up on Christmas, Mr. Hunt?” he yelled for the benefit of the crowd now assembled in front of the church. “Thanks for allowing Jesus to be born before taking me in” he sneered.

“Welcome,” Gene replied as he spun Sam around, holding his cuffed wrists with one hand while punching him in the stomach with the other.

While Sam was bent over gasping for breath, Gene pulled out the acid he’d planted on Sam earlier and displayed it to the crowd, many members of which had groaned in sympathy when he’d hit Sam.

“This bastard here brought drugs into a church. Probably planned to spend his holidays on the stuff dreaming of a white Christmas and reindeer dancing and God knows what else. He definitely deserves more than one good punch this Christmas.”

Sam spat and straightened up at that, knowing that Gene meant the last part for him as well as his undercover persona.

The crowd seemed only slightly less disapproving of Gene now, but no one could successfully persuade Gene to let Sam go. “It’s Christmas” just didn’t count with the law.

His mafia associates also attempted to come through for Sam as he was being led away, only to be told that they’d be “spending Christmas in the cells too if they didn’t back away, capice?”

Sam was strangely touched. They’d only been together about a month and these men were already attempting to protect him, even if that protective urge was motivated at least in part by self-interest.

Sam started to consider the ways in which Gene might be keeping him safe while he was being manhandled, still cuffed, into the back of the Cortina.

“You didn’t blow my cover,” he murmured wonderingly, testing his cuffed hands and seeing them in a new light.

Gene caught his eye in the mirror. “Don’t think for a minute that means you’re going back there, Sam. I ordered you--”

“You didn’t ‘order’ me anything officially, Guv! You mumbled something about getting the rest of the evidence via ‘sodding girly surveillance’ and then told me you hoped I wouldn’t get pine needles stuck in my knees when you shagged me next to the tree on Christmas Eve. Hardly the same as ‘DI Tyler, you will cease your undercover operation by December 23rd at twenty three hundred hours,’ now, is it?”

“Very well then, DI Tyler, are you going to tell me you didn’t know what I meant?”

Sam bit his lip. They didn’t usually discuss his…decision not to follow orders, explicit or implicit. Punches yes, discussions no.

“No, but in terms of procedure I did nothing--”

“Oh for— it’s not like I’m dragging you to Rathbone by the scruff of your neck for this and you know it. But you’re getting coal and a switch in your stocking this year, Sammy-boy, make no mistake. You knew you were supposed to get out and you stayed in. End of.”

“I had reason to suspect that they would visit the warehouse this morning and--”

“And Annie planted listening devices at their homes while we were at Mass. We’ll know when they’re going even if not where and our team will follow them.”

Gene’s voice softened. “It’s over for you now, Sam. We’ll stop at the station in case they followed us, you’ll make notes for your report, drink your whiskey, look surprised at the ‘Happy Christmas, Undercover Poof’ banner Ray’s put up, and then I’m taking you home. Understood?”

“Yes, Guv.”

And so Sam woke up at around ten on Christmas morning with a hangover and Gene’s arm draped over the new bruise on Sam’s stomach. Sam stretched, flexing his toes, and snuggled back into the sheets, grinning as Gene’s arm tightened around him in response to movement.

Gene really hadn’t been out of reach since the church. After the station, he’d taken Sam home, stripped him out of ‘Donnie’s’ clothes, and put him in the bath, washing the scent of Sam’s undercover cologne right off him. He wasn’t going to shag Sam while he smelled like Litton even if he hadn’t given him a seeing to in a month.

He’d then taken Sam by the light of the Christmas tree as promised.

It wasn’t the hard, pine-needles-in-knees sex Sam had been led to expect, either. It seemed Gene didn’t necessarily need to be rougher in order to balance out the romance, at least on this day, though Sam was certainly smart enough not to comment on that.

Instead, it was gentle, though still an act of reclaiming. They’d started out kissing on the tree mat, Sam slowly stripping Gene and watching the play of light on his newly exposed skin.

Gene had eventually nudged Sam over, spooning him before he could get on his knees. He’d prepared Sam over the rim of the bath earlier and so was able to slip right inside, an arm around Sam’s chest and a hand on Sam’s cock. Both of them stayed silent, wrapped up in one another while gazing at the tree.

Sam ground back into Gene at the memory, then slowly drifted off again, only to be woken by Gene dumping a heavy stocking on his chest.

The item at the top, of course, was a lump of coal.

Sam was grudgingly amused and honestly curious. “When did you even…? Did you get it before Mass or have you known you were going to do this since July?”

“June. Knew you’d give me an excuse to use it.”

Sam shook his head and then proceeded to pull oranges, Quality Street, a goodly amount of nuts, and a flask out of his stocking.

“No switch?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

“You’d like it too much. Certainly not going to reward you,” Gene replied, crossing his arms.

Sam scowled through his blush. Gene hid a grin and spun Sam around, landing a hard smack on his bottom. “Better?” he asked.

Sam twisted loose and punched his arm. “Just you see whether I give you your stocking now,” he threatened.

“When did you make me one?” Gene asked, positive that Sam hadn’t had the opportunity in the past fifteen hours.

Sam grinned cockily. “I gave it to Annie before I went undercover and she hid it where I asked her to while we were at the station.”

Gene raised an eyebrow. “I certainly hope there weren’t any oranges in there, then.”

“Nothing healthy for you this Christmas, Guv,” Sam assured him.

“Well thank Christ for that,” Gene said, stealing a swig from Sam’s new flask.

Sam still refused to buy Gene cigarettes, but he’d filled Gene’s stocking with garibaldis and pink wafers as well as a good bottle of scotch that had made the stocking’s toe go square-shaped.

After they’d breakfasted on pink wafers with a side of nuts and oranges and a healthy amount of scotch, Gene looked at Sam across their debris-strewn bed and said he was glad Sam was back.

Sam understood what Gene was really telling him but wasn’t quite sure, even now, that he should acknowledge that he knew.

“Because you’ll have a warm Christmas dinner now?” he asked, giving Gene an out if he wanted one.

Gene held Sam’s gaze, refusing his invitation to joke. “Well, that. And.”

Sam smiled, defenses down. “You know I’m glad to be here.”

**Author's Note:**

> The sections of the Latin Mass in the fic come from [ here ](http://www.public.asu.edu/~rhaefer/quickpropers/christmasmidnight.html) It's been a while since my Latin-studying days and I don't know the liturgical all that well, so have left it as the site gives it.


End file.
